


Bird Brain

by pendragonfics



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Avengers Tower, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Doctor Reader - Freeform, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Humor, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics
Summary: She's a doctor and patches up the Hawkeye almost every day. He's an Avenger, and somehow, hasn't realised that she's been into him for ages.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Reader, Clint Barton/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 114





	Bird Brain

**Author's Note:**

> This was a tumblr request!

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but whoever said that never had to deal with Clint Barton every forty-eight hours. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the man - what wasn’t there to like? No, it was the fact that the man was constantly getting hurt. Shooting himself in the foot (literally). Falling over, losing his hearing aid, being stabbed by bad guys, needing an emergency tetanus shot when he got cut by a rusted nail and was _very_ due for his shots.

It didn’t hurt that he was quite a looker, under all the bandages. Nice smile, kind eyes, and when he was actually taking care of himself and eating right, he had a rockin’ bod. If anyone caught you favouring him to the other Avengers who came by your station in the Tower, you’d say it was purely professional (when in actual fact, if he’d ever ask, you’d say yes to drinks in an instant).

The hardest part, though, was that every one of the team knew that you liked Clinton F. Barton, _except_ him.

Bucky and Sam had a bet going on between the team of how long it was going to take Clint; so far, the stakes were high, and almost everyone was in on it. It had gone on for years, and only once had Clint almost walked in on a group of them talking about it, but he brushed it off. It seemed that you had chosen one of the densest Avenger as your heartthrob. Early on, Tony Stark had given you shit for being so young (to which Thor smacked him on the underside of his head for). Then, when he got over the age-gap, it was all, _if you’re into older men why are you all heart-eyed over the Hawkeye when I’m literally here?_ Gradually over time, he let it go and moved on to other fish to fry.

After losing his hearing aid _again_ on a mission, Clint is seated before you, looking at his hands. You can’t imagine the pressure he would be under as a man without powers in the Avengers and living with a disability, but he’s never spoken about it. You look up from where you’re running diagnostics, hoping that Tony’s bottomless credit card can purchase some tech for Clint that won’t _fall out_ (his words) next time.

Once you have his attention, you sign, ‘You can tell me if you lost them on purpose.’

There’s a pause, and his face cracks that custom-made Clint Barton grin. He’s running on full-strength coffee or adrenaline these days, and it kills you to see him beating himself up all the time. He’s only human.

‘Blame gravity, not me.’ He frowns, and adds, ‘You believe me?’

‘Sure, and JFK is alive.’ You reply, laughing. He scrunches his nose up at that, trying to not show a smile, but you can see in his eyes, those tired eyes that lived off coffee and adrenaline, that there was some part of him that thought your quip was humorous.

Right then, Agent Romanoff walked in. If anyone had ever the self-esteem feel good about themselves in a room with her in it, they were lying. Her red hair was in a yoga bun, and she wore that black catsuit tied half-down around her waist. The only thing un-sexy about her was the fact there was a growing red stain beneath the button-down shirt. Clint seemed to get the message and signed his goodbyes to both of you as Natasha took his place on your examination table.

“Did I just ruin a moment?” she asked, unbuttoning her shirt unprompted.

There was a bullet in her lower abdomen, luckily the other side of her heart, and judging from the wound, was still inside. You move your hands toward the wound, and quickly assess before you pull on fresh gloves. She watches you, and lies down, administering herself the pain relief that you hand to her. Hopefully, her wound won’t need surgery.

“You say that like you’re sorry for coming in,” you reply, cleaning around the area.

Luckily, she doesn’t laugh, because that would hurt her wound. “But was it?” she pokes.

“Give me a break, I’m in love, not hopeless.” You retort, trying to stay professional. “…I mean, who even shot you, anyway? Didn’t your last mission end yesterday?”

“That’s classified. I’m a bad bitch like that,” she smirks, and unintentionally, you touch a tender area and she winces at the pain. Unfortunately for the Black Widow, she will need surgery. Before you move to page another medic, she places a hand on yours, and you look at her for a moment silently until she speaks. “…I know you’re not hopeless, ________, but it’s been three years, and if he can’t see _you_ ,” she gestures toward you like you’re the _Mona Lisa_ or someone worth her time, “he doesn’t deserve you.”

* * *

Game Night Fridays were a thing, apparently. Something that you hadn’t been a part of until Doctor Banner roped you into being his partner for a table tennis tournament. The only rule was that you had to _wear a stripy shirt, use no abilities to win the match, and have fun!_ (according to a retired Captain America, who you, after all, this time can’t believe survived coming out of the ice). Doctor Banner’s usual partner, the android Vision, was taking a long weekend with Wanda, his new fiancée to Miami.

That’s why you were stood in front of the table tennis table beside the sometimes-Hulk, sometimes-professor, all-times awkward walking Dad Joke Doctor Banner, wearing a striped shirt. On the other side of the table, Thor cracks his knuckles, and Clint flips the paddle in his hand and catches it like a cocky sportsman.

“Remember, to play fair!” Steve calls out, refereeing. He’s exempt of the mandatory ugly striped shirt, and holds a whistle in his teeth, about to blow. He’s very sports coach chic, looking very much an all-American hero.

“Or _not_ ,” Sam sasses, before the whistle blows, “and make it a match to remember!” He whoops.

Though the pair of them were Captain America, they had a different taste of how to serve their patriotic justice. The whistle is shrill, piercing, and Clint serves the orange ball.

Bruce hits it back, and Thor returns, and Bruce hits once more. You dive after it when Clint serves it back, and onward it goes. After a while, you take note of everyone’s style. Clint goes for tricky shots, and Thor uses the power behind the paddle to make fast ones. Bruce is reserved and stays on his side of the table, and with everything going on, you’re having to pick up the slack. You have a feeling that if Vision was here, he’d be a formidable player. Your reflexes are nothing on actual Avengers.

When Bruce misses the shot from Thor, you can see your teammate get tense, a tinge of green growing from beneath his collar.

“DoctorBanner, I think you should take a time out,” you tell him, but he shakes it off.

The next hit is quickly lost, and then it’s your turn to hit it. Clint’s making a funny face, and it throws you off momentarily, and you hit air instead of the ball. Thor roars with thunderous laughter. Doctor Banner looks more and more lime-green than his usual olive-tone. When Thor serves, it’s too fast, and it hits Bruce in the cheek, leaving a mark on his face.

The room gets quiet.

You place a hand on his shoulder, looking at the man. “Let’s get some air.”

You lead him away from the main room, out to the balcony adjacent to the main floor of the Avengers Tower communal area. Behind you, the Avengers resume their casual conversation, and the volume of the room goes from sterile to friendly. But just as you walk Bruce to the night air, Tony takes your place. He’s also not in a stripy shirt, and he wordlessly trades places with you, going in your stead to comfort the green doctor.

It’s easy enough to excuse yourself after that. Unlike the Avengers, you don’t get any time off, and the weekends are spent shadowing Doctor Cho at her clinic, and that starts early tomorrow morning. You say a quick goodbye to Sam and Bucky, who half-acknowledge you over their game of checkers (Bucky is playing red, and losing badly), and descend via the stairs. But halfway down, you hear someone behind and turning, you see Clint Barton.

His new hearing aid glows dimly in the hallway, and so goes his goofy smile. But there’s a different look in his eyes than usual, and you don’t know if right now you’re about to feel everything that you’ve been waiting for from him, or not.

He sticks his hand out to you, to shake. “Good game,” he says.

You smile. “Yeah, uh, it was a good game.”

“…it’s a shame you don’t come every Friday, ‘cause that was fun.” He adds, walking past you, continuing down the stairs. You take the cue and follow him the same way you were headed, down to the street. Most people take the elevator, in the once-Stark tower, but the stairs are oddly relaxing. “Maybe we can rush Viz and Wanda into a shotgun wedding, and we can play again some time.”

“I don’t really -,” you sigh, looking down. Clint frowns, and you don’t repeat yourself. You forget sometimes when he’s verbal and wearing the aid that he can’t hear everything. “Yeah. Maybe.”

* * *

For some reason, Clint Barton does not get hurt for three weeks. For three weeks, he keeps his hearing aids in one piece. He doesn’t get shot, stabbed or become unstable on a rooftop. He’s nowhere to be seen near your end of the woods. You spend your time catching up on paperwork, working on the medical profiles of the Avengers…and missing him.

It’s hard, because every time you give up on him, he comes back. And yet…there’s no sign of him.

Until there is. The Quinjet acts as a medivac, and arrives loudly, landing on the roof. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents escort a stretcher out, and you’re hastily called to action alongside the other medical professionals that have been called in. It’s barely five o’clock in the afternoon, one hour until you’re allowed to go home to binge-watch _America’s Funniest Home Videos_ , but when you see who’s nigh comatose in the stretcher, your heart almost stops.

“How the hell -,” you cry out, starting to worry.

“ _Language_!” says everyone, except Steve Rogers.

“-There was an ambush, Doctor ________. He was shot at by a sniper, but he managed to remove himself from 75 per cent of the ranged weapons range. He has three wounds of varying degrees of severity and is currently on a high dosage of pain medication to get him here.” Vision reports, helping the agents move the bed toward the elevator, to your set up.

“Thank you,” you tell him, and look at Clint. He looks so peaceful and would appear to be sleeping well if not for the two shots by his collar bone. “Okay, I need everyone scrubbed up, I need a dose of morphine prepped for when this wears off, call a surgeon in and - Doctor Cho, ready your cradle.” You speak hastily and remember afterwards that you’re not the head doctor on staff. “…sorry. Just, um, get him better.”

“________...” Clint says, woozily.

You look down to see him. His eyes are partly open, and slowly, his mouth opens to bare his teeth in a loose grin. His hands are soft, and reach for you blindly, but can’t seem to coordinate himself. He’s high off his face on the medicine, and you take his hand in yours, holding it tight.

“Yeah, I’m here.” You reach for his face, pushing his dirty blonde hair back. “It’s me.”

“You’re like, the best.” He says.

From across the room, you hear a nurse snicker quietly.

“You’re so…good at your job,” he slurs. “…and I’m like, Hawkbutt.”

“Hawkeye,” you correct.

“ _That’s the same_ thiiing,” he drawls. “…I’m a butt. I am. A. Butt. _Heh_. Butt.” He prattles.

“You’re not a butt, Clint. You’re a hero.” You tell him.

Doctor Cho comes behind you and places a hand on your shoulder. “I think it’s best if you sit out on this. You’re too close to the patient to take care of him.” She pauses. “It’s for the best.”

“I heard that! My hearing - aid - I _heard that_ ” Clint adds. “You’re right, Doctor Cho, she shouldn’t. Because,” he takes a deep breath in, as the other medical professionals swarm around him, readying the assessment before taking care of him, “Be-because I want to marry that lady. She’s the best.”

The room gets uncomfortably quiet, with just the EKG in the background.

His hand slackens off yours, moving over to his chest. That smile of his widens, albeit unfocused. He yawns, and looking your way, says with his hands just as he’s administered another round of drugs, his motions sloppy, but forgivable,

‘I love you,’ he signs.

You feel tears prick in your eyes. “Clint,” you reply, reaching for his arm. His pulse is weakening, the medically induced coma coming on, and he looks to you with his fading consciousness. You sign, just for him to see, ‘I love you too.’

* * *

It’s another six months until Clint Barton is cleared to go back to fieldwork, but that day comes and goes, and he’s still hanging around the Avengers Tower, this time in your surgery not for health reasons. The archery Avenger follows you around like a lost puppy in love, and to be perfectly honest, you wouldn’t have it any other way. Tony Stark went back to his teasing and kept the security tape of that day, archived in F.R.I.D.A.Y. under ‘ _Birdbrain & the Doc_’ - a file he won’t change the name of. But it’s okay.

Even though he’s older, and you’re younger, he’s a combatant, and you’re a medic, he’s a coffee drinker and you prefer tea, you swear up and down that you’re as fond as ever for the dense archery master Clint, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out [@pendragonfics](https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions)! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


End file.
